


Motel Cinderella

by Havokftw



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Friends to Lovers, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 04:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12498368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Havokftw/pseuds/Havokftw
Summary: Seungcheol wakes up in a motel.....





	Motel Cinderella

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short piece inspired by Seungcheol's promo shot for Teen-age released yesterday. I did a short thread on twitter about a story I had in mind....which you can read here  
> [Thread](https://twitter.com/havoktreeftw/status/922842616936443906)
> 
> I decided to follow it up with this.   
> It's different to the thread, only that I literally do not have the time to start ANOTHER STORY!

One minute, Seungcheol’s sitting at the bar nursing a beer, and the next he's blinking awake to find himself lying in an uncoordinated sprawl on top of a lumpy bed, sheets tangled around him haphazardly like some sort of kick-ass toga.

He can see now he's in a motel room—a cheap motel room if the brown-and-orange covers and the brown shag carpeting are anything to go by.

Seungcheol doesn’t know how he ended up here. Last night has evaporated behind him and— _so have most of his clothes._

“Where are my clothes?” Seungcheol asks aloud.

Predictably, there's no answer from the empty room.

He’s still wearing socks though—which is comforting, if not decidedly _odd_. He may not have his memories—but he still has his socks.

He's good at that-looking at the bright side of things.  

His head throbs dully, cranky at him for not pausing between shots. He rolls so that his back is to the window and recognises the deep, reassuring ache that can only mean one thing.

The vague sense memory of really, really good sex.

Nice.

Although, Seungcheol’s _still_ not exactly clear on how that happened.  

There's a large and fragmented section of yesterday which is stubbornly refusing to make itself known.

The morning and most of the afternoon are clear enough in his memory. If his memory is still to be trusted.

He remembers meeting Jihoon after work, and there was booze, and he vaguely remembers there being several rounds of shots and playing truth or dare and, oh, that rarely ends well.

That rarely ends well when you're  _sober._

He’s not positive, but he _thinks_ Jihoon dared him to fart loudly between songs.

He hopes he didn't go through with it, but he recalls Jihoon doubling over with laughter at one stage and everyone in the bar turning towards him with accusing expressions and-...yeah. He went through with it.

Speaking of which— _where the fuck is Jihoon?_

Did he get lucky last night too?

The last concrete thing Seungcheol remembers is walking out of bar with his arm over a guy’s shoulder. A guy with dark eyes, a lilting voice and blunt sort of rudeness about him. He'd made Seungcheol laugh.

It's all a bit of a mess after that.

Although he's in no hurry to get out of bed, Seungcheol can hear housekeeping cleaning the room next door and estimates he has five minutes before they burst in here and start turning the room—whether he’s lounging naked on the bed wearing socks or not.

He slowly,  _carefully_ , eases himself off the bed, and, thankfully, doesn't feel like throwing up everything he's ever eaten.

All the blinds in the motel room have been pulled shut, but the morning sunlight filters in around the edges, giving the room a strange kind of dimness that clarifies certain details.

Seungcheol can make out the white crescents of somebody’s fingernails on his thighs, an undeniable smudge of bruising just above his hipbones, a bite-mark on his shoulder and—drawn on the mirror on the far wall—a lopsided heart.

Padding over to the mirror, Seungcheol stares at the heart for a long time, the quiet of the room loud in his ears as he traces the smear of pink toothpaste with his fingertips and _tries_ to bring a face to the forefront of his mind.

As hard as he tries, he can’t form a clear image of the man in his head but thinks he remembers pieces of the night now. Like a particularly well-ordered flashback from a Hollywood movie, some of it particularly dirty in a way a Hollywood movie wouldn't go near.

He remembers smooth legs, a lithe body and astonishingly bright eyes staring up at him. A man with a laugh that that had vibrated all the way through him, a voice that had berated him constantly and a mouth that hadn’t shut up no matter how hard Seungcheol had kissed it.

Seungcheol had rather liked that.

He remembers sinking sharp teeth into soft flesh and the taste of blood in his mouth. He remembers motel sheets sticking to damp skin, and the planes and angles of a smaller body beneath his fascinating and enticing. He remembers wanting things he'd never even thought about before, and that rough rumble of laughter that didn't refuse a single one of them

He finds himself getting hard as his brain helpfully throws up, in detail, exactly  _which_  activities he indulged in to make him that uncomfortable in intimate places.

All the evidence points to one thing: he hooked up with a stranger at the bar and fucked him in this motel room, and he'd done it repeatedly, and by all accounts enthusiastically.

He makes a quiet noise of approval, followed quickly by one of loss.

Whoever that guy was, he didn’t hang around. Apart from the crude drawing on the mirror, nothing hints at the man that was here.

Seungcheol feels irrationally angry about that, and then upset that he’s angry in the first place. He’d always been looking for sex without strings and that’s exactly what he got. No matter how amazing last night was—it would have been weird, not to mention awkward for the guy to hang around.

What were they going to do? Have breakfast in bed? Cuddle?

Not likely.

Seungcheol had stopped believing in fairy tales when he realized life wasn't one, but some of his childhood naivety must still linger; it’s the only reason he can think of why this thing abandonment is irritating him now.

It's _almost_ enough to make him regret last night.

 _Except_ —he's too content, too warm and satisfied, and even as he climbs on the bed to fish his boxers off the ceiling fan—as the movement sets off the low, pleasant ache in his ass—he knows he doesn't regret a single damn thing.

Hold on a second—these aren’t even his boxers.

He’s pretty sure these are Jihoon’s….

.

.

.

_Oh._

**Author's Note:**

> Short.  
> I may follow this up with a sequel. One day.   
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
